


hands down

by seven-stitches (Nagaem_C)



Series: Touch and Go [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Erotica, F/M, Flirting, Hand & Finger Kink, Sexual Fantasy, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-13
Updated: 2015-10-13
Packaged: 2018-04-26 05:48:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4992649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nagaem_C/pseuds/seven-stitches
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You work as a saleswoman in a small jewellery shop. On slow weekday mornings, it's often terribly dull...but today, you've got someone quite striking to hold your attention.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hands down

**Author's Note:**

  * For [directedbysherlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/directedbysherlock/gifts).



  
**_hands down_ **  
\--------------

 

His fingers aren't long.

They aren't gracefully slender, neither pale pianist's tools nor the precise appendages of a scientist; no magazine would ever photograph him modelling rings or watches.

 _It's their loss,_ you think, looking down.

His hand rests on your counter, over the display case full of etched platinum bands, as he speaks with your boss. _Time of the break-in, possible suspect..._ It doesn't concern you, you're certain. You tune the discussion out, reducing his low voice to its component sounds.

Rough edges. Rock candy with warm caramel in the centre.

You know he's just as attractive as that tumbled-stone voice—you watched him as he'd entered the jewellery shop, looking all around with his sharp, dark eyes, a posture that said "authority" and a flashed warrant card to match. But now that he's close to you, so close you can smell coffee and a hint of faded cologne, you can't find the courage to look up. There's no good excuse to leave your post, the shop is empty of customers; you keep your gaze lowered and fixed upon his hand, instead.

He wears no ring, but a watch peeks from his shirt cuff: silver bezel, black leather band, quality but utilitarian. It sets off the honeyed gold of his tanned skin...the dusky shadow of fine hair along the back of his hand, broad and square across the knuckles.

And those _fingers_. Not long, no, but thick; sturdy; tapered smooth to blunt tips with neatly trimmed nails. They look heavy and strong, but they move as he speaks, twitching and lifting and tapping light as restless ghosts against the glass.

You can't look away.

One finger—it would stroke your cheek, trail across your jaw, brush at the pulse point you can already feel fluttering in your throat.

Two—the tips against your lips, resting soft; you would open for a taste, draw them in, roll your tongue over and between until he groans. Your skirt is satin and crepe, floating loose at the hem, and two fingers is all it would take to slip beneath, slide around, questing along your thigh to nudge your knickers aside.

Three would be more than enough to fill you. The outward curve of his thumb—you imagine the wide pad of it stroking, circling. How gentle would he be? How firm?

He could lean in, as he pushes upwards, whisper hot-coffee breath at your ear, _yes, good_ —he could press you back against the wall; you wouldn't mind at all. Your knees feel weak even now, imagining him holding you up with one of those big, strong hands at your shoulder and the other pushing beneath.

 _Like this, do you,_ he growls at your ear; _yeah, thought so..._

In your mind you're gasping, nodding with your hot cheek pressed into his shirtfront, rising onto your toes and swivelling your hips to meet him halfway. He chuckles at your quick insistence and gradually shallows out, ignoring your whimper of frustration as he changes his angle, until just the tips of those probing fingers tease you, dipping in and then gliding—forwards and back, pressing and releasing, his thumb picking up a stronger rhythm.

He knows what he's doing, this imagined Inspector.

His other hand is moving, now, skimming the curve of your breast through your top, cupping it while his thumbs synchronise their efforts; your breath is coming faster, and you've tilted your head back with your eyes squeezed tight shut. You realise you don't know what to do with your own hands—you visualise them fluttering near your sides, lifting to brush across his shoulders and neck, trembling too much to settle.

 _Mm, yeah,_ he hums in encouragement, his stubbled jaw scraping deliciously against your cheek. _That's it. Go ahead and hang on tight,_ he says, and you do, revelling in the feel of hidden muscles working beneath his striped dress shirt.

Next his lips find your earlobe, and then the tender, sensitive flesh below it. Nipping gently with a low grunt of satisfaction at your sigh, he sends his thick, nimble fingers delving into your centre once more, this time deeper and more insistent, his digits curling forwards to tap at you from the inside at the apex of each slow stroke. You hear yourself responding in tiny, breathy cries that echo every movement—they spur him on and he begins to speed up the pace, little by little, until you're bouncing on your toes and gasping with the intensity of his unrelenting thrusts.

Just when you're biting your lip over a rising wail of pleasure, clutching taut handfuls of pressed cotton at his back, he shifts, lifting his head to meet your eyes intently. He moves both strong hands to your hips, beneath your rucked-up skirt, gripping firmly, pulling you in close to him and holding you there as you pant and tremble: with his trousers pressed up against the soaked cling of your knickers you can feel the heated length of him, solid and eager. He's breathing hard, too, and grinning.

 _Do you want this?_ he asks you, still playful, but with an undertone of pure heat that rockets down your spine. _Do you want me?_

" _Yes_ —I want you," you whisper—and then you freeze, jolted back to reality; your eyes shoot up from the tanned, tapping fingers that have gone suddenly still on the display counter.

Your boss is still talking, oblivious. The Inspector is looking straight at you, one eyebrow twitching up quizzically at your quiet interjection.

You swallow, heart racing, utterly sure the lewd fantasy is written all over your furiously blushing face. Your lips trace unfinished words, but you say nothing. A stammered excuse would likely do you no better than silence, you decide.

His eyes leave yours and slide downwards to the glass case, where your hands are flattened stiffly atop each other, just inches from his; when he looks back up to you, you know he's realised what you've been watching.

A corner of his mouth lifts, his brow relaxes, and he returns his attention to your boss with a polite clearing of his throat. "That's exactly what we'd suspected, sir. But if you wouldn't mind just fetching me that record book you mentioned, my consultant has asked me to look for a few names, persons of interest..."

Suddenly the two of you are alone. "Miss," the Inspector says softly, his expression serious but his eyes practically twinkling, "is everything all right?"

"Of course...I'm fine," you manage, a little shakily. Straightening your shoulders, you smooth both palms down your skirt.

As he nods, his dark eyes flicker down over your body—so quickly it's more likely the habit of a seasoned investigator than anything else. "That's good. I'd hate to think my careless talk of the murder next door had given you a fright."

 _Fantasies don't come true,_ you warn yourself, preparing to find an excuse, any excuse, to step away from your post. You've never let yourself get carried away in one like this before, and the embarrassment at being caught out is physically painful.

But then he lifts his hand with deliberate care—almost reluctant, it seems, to take away the object of your attention—and he dips his fingers into the breast pocket of his suit jacket to feel around for something.

"Let me just do this, then," he murmurs, pulling out a card and a pen. He bows his head over the counter to write something, and you find yourself visualising your fingers woven into that gorgeous salt-and-pepper hair; you give yourself a firm mental smack on the wrist as he straightens up.

"Here. I already know you weren't working during the days in question, but...er, if you find anything to share at all, or feel the need to call for _any_ reason..." He offers the business card, meeting your eyes again with a tiny, sly smile. "You can use the number on the back to reach me. Anytime."

His fingers brush against yours as you accept his card, and he smiles wider when the contact makes you shiver. He's clearly done it on purpose.

You can't help but return the smile. "Perhaps I will, Inspector Lestrade."

 

\-----

 


End file.
